


Temporary

by courtinggtrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Kissing, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Supportive Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtinggtrouble/pseuds/courtinggtrouble
Summary: Jaskier looked at himself in the mirror and smiled, big and bright.Buttercup.Weed.Temporary.--Everyone's always left Jaskier, he's come to expect it. After all, he was temporary, forgettable. Until Geralt comes back. Until Geralt seems bent on proving him wrong.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 35
Kudos: 1232





	Temporary

Julian and his parents were never that close.

They weren’t really invested in him if he was being honest.

Well, maybe they were. They were invested in his academic grades and his ‘upbringing’, which for them consisted of learning how to hunt pheasants and which fork to use.

Other than that, Julian was pretty much left alone with no one but his nanny to keep him company. He liked her. She’d sing for him and tuck him in at night with a kiss.

When he was 7 he figured out that she was being paid to care for him so he closed himself off even to her, hiding behind his blinding smiles.

His father wasn’t gentle with him and Julian tended to get in trouble. How else would an ignored child get any sort of attention? Turns out that the Earl of Lettenhove was more invested in the dignity of the Lettenhove name than he was in ignoring his son. So Julian got what he wanted…in a way. It’s sickeningly clichéd, isn’t it?

Eventually his parents didn’t know what to do with him so they sent him off to boarding school.

Julian learned how to be charismatic, how to become popular among his peers and earn ‘friends’. All fleeting relationships, never lasting long, never slipping past his mask of smiles. Unfortunately, that did not stop him from getting into trouble, nor did it keep him interested in his studies.

He remembered one particular professor. He was a wizard with a cane. He knew exactly where to strike to make it the most painful. “No tears.” He used to say and Julian was forced to swallow them down. After a while he learned how to be an academic.

His love for poetry came as a surprise. He’d only started liking it when he was 19. It was also when he’d met the Countess de Stael. Once she’d stepped into his life, poetry had poured out of him. He’d forgo sleep in favour of letting the words slip onto the pages before him. She loved it at the time.

And then she left.

And so Julian had carried on with his studies, allowing his broken heart to write the most beautiful sonnets and ballads.

And then Julian had left. And he’d changed his name. He changed it to Jaskier. _Buttercup_. Beautiful, bright and yellow. Small, delicate and smooth to the touch.

 _Buttercup_. A weed.

Loosen the soil, yank at its base and pull it out. More room for better things now.

He’d fallen into many beds during his travels. Men, women, neither. Sometimes it was the Countess de Stael herself. He remembered most of their names. And when he didn’t, it was because he’d been blackout drunk. And even then, he’d remember things like the touch of their skin or the colour of their hair.

None lasted long. Many didn’t care to learn his name. He wasn’t hurt. He hadn’t expected anything more.

He wrote beautiful songs. People didn’t care to listen. So he wrote what was popular. He wrote of monsters and heroes and kings. He knew nothing of monsters and heroes and kings. His songs were bad. He wasn’t paid much.

Then he’d met Geralt of Rivia. Witcher. Monster Hunter. Emotionally constipated. Self loathing. Kind. Generous. Asshole. Utter and absolute asshole.

The love of Jaskier’s life.

Geralt had never shown Jaskier much outward affection. Jaskier had hoped that he cared though. He’d hoped that he wasn’t dispensable, forgettable. The Witcher, for all of his grumpiness, had provided food, had let the bard sleep in occasionally, had let him talk for hours on end, had made sure he was always safe and healthy. He had once even nursed Jaskier back to health after a particularly malicious cold that had left him numb and with a raging fever. Jaskier could even make out the faint whisper of worry in the Witcher’s golden eyes.

Geralt had also inspired him to write in a way he hadn’t known possible. Suddenly, the lyrics and notes were pouring out of him again. His pockets filled with coin. His stomach filled with food. His fame spread. His music was respected. People’s desire for him had grown. He was _wanted_. But never in the way that he needed.

People ignored him when he was with Geralt, their gaze slipping over him like water. He understood. It was hard to focus on a simple bard when a Witcher stood right beside him. And not just any Witcher. Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. A mass of muscles and sharp swords and white hair and amber eyes and gods, did Jaskier understand. He often found himself struggling to look away. And besides, he was used to not being seen, at least not being seen truly and wholly.

Then came the golden dragon and the witch and the mountain and -

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

It seemed to be a common wish for anyone who’d met him.

Some of his relationships lasted a night, maybe a week, a month, maybe a little more.

With Geralt it had been 20 years. He’d cleaned his wounds, he’d bathed him, he’d learned to understand his grunts and the minute twists of his lips, he’d loved him with all that he had. 20 years. He still wasn’t enough. Jaskier wished he could blame the Witcher. But he’d seen him be kind, he’d seen him be gentle, he’d seen him be careful with his words. Perhaps Jaskier simply wasn’t enough. Maybe he wasn’t enough to warrant care.

Dispensable, forgettable, _temporary._ Fun while it lasted but not enough to love.

While Jaskier was an idealist, he’d always considered himself to be realistic about his own assets. He was attractive, he had great eyes and a great smile, he was a good dancer, he could write a hell of a song.

There was not much else.

He was annoying, too excitable, too greedy, he was interesting up to a point. He talked too much. He was too cocky. He was useless in a fight. He had a tendency to fool around with married people. He was unlovable.

Ah, yes, and he was dramatic. Overly dramatic.

Jaskier looked at himself in the mirror and smiled, big and bright.

Buttercup.

Weed.

Temporary.

_“If life could give me one blessing -”_

The smile didn’t waver.

Geralt had found him half a year later performing at a rather respectable inn. He had been singing one of his new songs. It wasn’t about Geralt. None of his new songs were. Not for lack of material though, he found he could write about the Witcher endlessly. Jaskier had believed himself adept at swallowing down pain. He was proven wrong.

“What can I do for you, Witcher?” He’d asked with a grin, hoping Geralt wouldn’t see through it.

“Nothing, Jaskier.I want nothing from you.” He’d responded and the bard felt his chest clench at that. Perhaps this meeting had simply been an accident. Geralt didn’t want anything to do with him. He should have been used to it.

“Ah, well then,” Jaskier said, turning around, finding he couldn’t stand to look into those amber eyes any longer, “see you around, Geralt.”

“No - Jaskier, please, wait,” the bard had ground to a halt at that, looking over his shoulder to see a pained expression on that beautiful face, “I - I’ve been looking for you.”

So, yes, Geralt had found him and _not_ accidentally. He had been _looking_ for him.

Jaskier didn’t know what to do with that information.

“I want to apologise.”

The smile finally slipped.

“You…you want to apologise?”

“Yes.” Came the response. Short. Fast. Without any room for doubt.

“Why?”

Geralt looked almost incredulous, almost confused. “Because I said terrible things to you.”

Jaskier furrowed his brows.

“So?” He couldn’t help but ask, not maliciously but entirely curiously.

“‘So?’ What do you mean ‘so’? Jaskier, I said things to you that I didn’t mean, things that I couldn’t stand you believing. I - Jaskier, you - you were there and I was angry and I lashed out.”

A beat of silence.

“After the mountain, I - I tried to be alone and I couldn’t stand it. Even…even before - we’d spend weeks apart but I still never felt as alone as I did after I said…what I said and I - I didn’t mean it and then I went to find Yennefer,”

Ah, Jaskier was an idiot. Add that to the list of flaws. Of course he wasn’t the first one to be sought out by the Witcher. Why would he be?

“Must have been a fun reunion.” Jaskier said, trying to inject some genuine sounding mirth into his voice and the smile that had reappeared. Geralt looked away.

“It wasn’t like that. Although we care for each other, we realised that that wasn’t what we wanted.”

Despite himself, Jaskier’s chest still tightened painfully. Hearing - hell, even seeing - how truly and deeply they cared for each other… His smile didn’t waver.

“Sorry about that.” Was all he could think to say.

“Stop it.”

Jaskier blinked.

“Stop what?”

“That smile. That smile you do when you don’t really want to be smiling. I’ve known you for 20 years, bard, I know which smiles are genuine.”Geralt sounded frustrated. Almost pained.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier. I know I fucked up. I know I did and you deserve to be angry at me but don’t give me that smile. I hate it. I hate that smile.” The Witcher took a step closer and the bard finally let his smile slip. It wasn’t his only mask. Geralt seemed to realise this too, still looking displeased.

“What do you want from me, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, the amusement gone from his voice, but he managed to keep it levelled, not betraying the tiredness behind it.

“I don’t want anything from you, Jaskier,” he paused for a moment. “What I wanted to say was that I talked to Yennefer and she helped me realise that I don’t want a life without you.”

It would’ve sounded romantic if Jaskier wasn’t certain that Geralt would never think of him like that.

“So you _do_ want something from me. You want me to travel with you again.”

Geralt winced and after a moment said, “yes”.

“You hurt me.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m - I’m trying to make up for it.”

Jaskier was weak. Add that to the list. He was so fucking weak.

“Okay.”

After that, Geralt would eye the bard warily for a while, as if expecting him to reveal himself as some sort of shapeshifter, a doppler maybe. But Jaskier knew that the Witcher would smell anything like that a mile away so he didn’t really know why he kept glancing at him over the campfire.

Other than that, it seemed like things were back to normal.

Everything forgiven, nothing forgotten. Unfortunately.

Jaskier pushed that out of his mind and returned to his rambles and Witcher-themed ballads. After all, Geralt had said he’d missed him. Surely that had meant the whole ‘Jaskier experience’, prattling and all.

The bard still didn’t know how to comprehend that information. No one had ever missed him in his life. At least, not that he knew of. Maybe they missed how he made them feel, like when the Countess would moan “gods, I missed this,” as he’d trail kisses up her thighs. So no, he didn’t know what Geralt wanted but it was strange. The Witcher smiled at him more, talked to him more. Every time they separated for a time, Geralt would greet him with a small smile. It made the bard’s heart do things and it wasn’t fair.

Perhaps this was a punishment from some god or another, maybe destiny herself or karma. Maybe it was Jaskier’s punishment to have to endure a love for a man who would never reciprocate it, all the while being subjected to that same man openly stating that, yes, he wanted Jaskier around.

A few months later, Geralt had kissed him.

It was after a battle with a Leshy, half wildcat, half bear, with fangs and claws like knives, sharp and long enough to sever a man in half. Jaskier had gotten very close to being that man before Geralt had yanked it back by its tail, swinging his sword as it whirled around in fury. After the fight, the Witcher had surged over to Jaskier, arm bleeding and eyes searching.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice gruff. His hands were running over the bard’s body, checking for injuries.

“No.” Jaskier managed to choke out, trying to ignore the feeling of Geralt’s hands skimming over his hips. “But you are. Let me check that arm.” He said, reaching for the Witcher’s bleeding bicep. A hand snapped up and grabbed his wrist, bringing it back down to his side.

“You got too close.” He rumbled, taking a step closer so that he was practically pressing the bard up against the tree behind him. Jaskier swallowed.

“I know. Sorry.” He let out a shaky breath as he noticed those golden eyes sliding down to his lips. Geralt growled and pressed their lips together, one hand behind Jaskier’s head, the other still gripping his wrist. Jaskier was quick to reciprocate, tangling his fingers in the Witcher’s snowy hair and opening his mouth willingly.

Their kiss was all tongues and teeth and sucking and biting. Their sex was much the same. Jaskier knew it was adrenaline and he knew it was just physical, but he couldn’t stop from smiling the next morning, for once waking before the other man. Geralt’s injured arm was wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, the wound already mostly healed. The bard found himself tracing the outline of Geralt’s cheekbone, his jawline, his thumb running over his lips. He had never known the Witcher to sleep so deeply that a touch would not wake him.

He didn’t know whether this was a one time thing but he was grateful it had happened. Even if he only got to taste the man once, he would find a way to make it be enough.

After a while, Jaskier got up and wet a small rag, cleaning himself before rinsing it and beginning to clean the Witcher, it was nothing he hadn’t already seen, some of it he’d even helped wash before. They were still sticky from the night before and they were nowhere near any lakes or rivers. Geralt woke to Jaskier running the cloth across his thigh.

“Sorry, I thought it would be nice to wake up not so icky.” The bard said, pulling his hand away.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hand, “I like it.”

Jaskier smiled and looked away, missing the way his favourite pair of golden eyes lit up at the sight.

“Well, I’m not about to miss my chance at touching that body again.” He said with a whistle. Geralt laughed at that and pulled the bard down, pressing a kiss to his lips that threatened to burst Jaskier’s chest with affection.

The Witcher’s gaze was soft for the rest of the morning.

They’d fall into bed multiple times again. Sometimes it was rough and fast and adrenaline-hazed. Sometimes it was soft and gentle and it left Jaskier feeling heady, his head filling with sweet honey as Geralt’s fingers worked wonders.

It was hard for him not to get attached even more. He knew he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe that Geralt cared for him romantically. He wouldn’t put his heart through that. Still, it was hard.

So one evening, when a particularly brave woman had chosen to flirt with the Witcher, all but offering herself up on a platter, Geralt had looked to Jaskier with a look in his eye.

“It’s okay, Geralt.” He’d reassured him from the seat across the table, he smiled and Geralt frowned before rejecting the woman bluntly. Jaskier felt a sigh of relief building in his throat as the woman sauntered away.

“What did you mean ‘it’s okay’?” Geralt asked, turning to him with stiff shoulders. Jaskier froze. Was he really going to make him say it aloud?

“I - I mean, it’s okay if you want to sleep with other people, you don’t have to worry about me.” _You don’t have to worry about me trying to stop you, about me being hurt._

“What - Jaskier -,” The Witcher struggled for a moment before taking a breath, “is this just about sex for you?”

Jaskier definitely wasn’t expecting that.

“I…is it for you?” He asked. It was a coward’s response. Had he already put that on the list? Add cowardly to the list. Geralt was quiet and Jaskier could feel his heart beating in his throat as those amber eyes searched his.

“No.”

He thinks he might have misheard.

“What?”

“It’s not just about sex for me and if it is for you then we should stop.”

Jaskier’s mouth was open, trying to find a response. He knew what he wanted to say but a declaration of love was probably not what the Witcher wanted.

“I love you, Jaskier.” Geralt said, his face pinched.

Huh.

“I know you don’t want me like that,” Geralt continued, his gaze still on Jaskier’s, “you of all people have seen the worst of me and I wouldn’t blame you for not being able to stomach romance with a _Witcher,”_ the way he said that word made his chest clench, “but I can’t keep doing this, Jaskier.”

Since when had _Geralt_ ever been more eloquent than his bard?

“You think I don’t love you?” Jaskier’s voice came out quiet, hesitant, incredulous. Geralt’s eyes looked wary.

“You -“

“Geralt, how can I not fucking love you? I’ve spent 20 years loving you. Fuck - it - it hurts how much I love you.”

Because it did. Every time Geralt smiled at him or teased him or tied his hair back in the morning, it was like a blow to Jaskier’s chest, but he’d gotten good at swallowing pain, swallowing tears.

He could tell Geralt was still disbelieving and fuck - he knew that the man’s self-loathing ran deep and he couldn’t help himself from saying; “Geralt, you are the best man I’ve ever known and it frustrates me to no end that you don’t see it.”

Geralt was watching him, scanning his face, his eyes, looking for something.

“Then why - why do you hide yourself from me?” He asked, frustrated, “You - you do this smile that - it’s not you, it’s not your smile. There’s this look in your eyes sometimes. It’s like a wall and I hate that you need to hide from me.”

Jaskier’s hand shot out to grab Geralt’s, trying to comfort him. The Witcher had never been big on affection in public but he let his hand be taken by the bard.

“It’s not you, Geralt, I don’t blame you. It’s - it’s not love…what you feel for me.” Jaskier smiled sadly, his years of practice swallowing down tears being put to use. “It’s not love. You’ll get bored of me soon. I’m not permanent. I’m - I’m a fleeting fancy. And that’s okay.”

“You - I - _what?”_ Geralt asked, looking so completely confused that it was almost comical. “Fuck. We’re not talking about this here.” He said, standing up and dragging Jaskier up through the inn and into their shared room. “Now,” the Witcher growled, whirling on the bard and grabbing him by his shirt, “what the _fuck_ did you just say.”

Geralt didn’t scare Jaskier. He could never scare him, but the bard’s eyes were wide as he looked at Geralt’s furious expression.

“I - I don’t know how to say it, Geralt, I - no one’s ever wanted me before, not in a way that matters.” He managed to choke out, his vision turning blurry. Fuck, he thought he’d gotten good at swallowing down tears but Geralt had yet again proven him wrong.

“Who told you that?” He asked furiously.

“No one,” Jaskier responded, pushing Geralt away and scrubbing at his cheeks fiercely, “no one had to. I know, okay? I _know.”_ The Witcher snarled.

“You know _nothing,_ bard, if you don’t know that I love you.”

“Stop it, Geralt.”

“No.”

“I can’t do this if you’re just going to _leave_ me.”

Jaskier froze and a silence passed. His breath was shaking from barely restrained tears.

“I can’t do this, Geralt,” he continued in a quiet voice, “not if you find someone better and leave me. I - I don’t know what I’d do. Everyone I’ve ever known has either left me or grown tired of me. It’s not a pattern that’s going to end with you. I - I don’t think I could take it if you left me again.”

Geralt’s gaze was soft, _pitying_. Jaskier was _pitiful_ , add that to the list.

“I’ve known you for over 20 years and I have not grown tired.”

“What is 20 years to a Witcher? And even so, you _did,_ you _did_ grow tired of me.”

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.’_

“I didn’t grow tired of you. I grew tired of myself and my ability to fuck everything up.” Geralt said softly, “And I did, I fucked it up.”

“Geralt, it’s not love.”

“Stop _saying_ that.”

“It’s not.”

Geralt snarled and pushed Jaskier up against the wall, leaning in close so that Jaskier had nowhere to look except for those golden eyes. Those disarmingly honest, golden eyes.

“Listen to me, Jaskier, _I love you.”_

Jaskier wouldn’t cry. He swallowed down a shaky breath.

“I’m irritating.”

“You are.”

“I talk too much.”

“You do. I like it.”

“I’m greedy.”

“You enjoy finery. It’s not the same.”

“I’m arrogant.”

“Clearly you’re not.”

“I can’t fight. I’m a coward.”

“You’re one of the bravest men I know. To the point of recklessness, it worries me.”

“It does?”

“It does.”

Geralt’s lips were grazing over his now, teasingly. Jaskier smiled, genuinely. Geralt smiled right back.

“You love me?” He asked, voice breaking.

“I do.”

And Jaskier cried, finally.

Jaskier cried and laughed and kissed Geralt. It was bad. It was wet and sloppy and he loved it. And Geralt loved it too. Because he loved him. Jaskier. He loved him.

Then Geralt had dragged him to bed, whispering praise into his skin as if hoping it would soak through him and settle in his bones. Jaskier had done the same because fuck, he was in love and it was dizzying.

“You know,” Jaskier began the next morning, earning a grunt from the Witcher laying under him, “I think last night was the longest I’ve ever heard you speak.” The chest beneath the bard’s head rumbled with a laugh.

“Fuck off.”

“I guess I just bring it out of you, Witcher.” Jaskier continued, grinning devilishly.

“I will kick you out of this bed, bard.”

“Please, I dare you to try and rip me off of you. I have melded my body onto yours.”

Geralt simply grumbled in response. It was a grumble of acceptance, Jaskier could tell. He could always tell.

-

They ran into Yennefer two months later and Jaskier found that he wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t worried Geralt would return to her. Partly because when she spotted them the first thing out of her mouth was;

“Finally. For Melitele’s sake, that took much too long.”

Geralt had looked at her with a pointedly unamused gaze which she’d returned with a wink.

Later, after they had helped her with a monster-slaying job so she could collect some sort of venom, the three had shared drinks.

“I take full credit for this, by the way.” She’d said, gesturing to the two of them and the arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist.

“In what way is this _your_ doing?” Jaskier had asked.

“I’m the one who told him to tell you how he felt.”

“Which he did _months_ after he’d found me.”

“Is his lack of communication skills _my_ fault?”

“If he didn’t do it when you told him to then it doesn’t count.”

“Fuck off, it counts.”

“It most certainly does not.”

Geralt took a sip of his ale as the two continued to bicker.

Not long after, Yennefer had decided to join them - “graced” them with her presence as she’d put it. Jaskier could tell that Geralt and the sorceress still cared for each other deeply. He couldn’t really talk though, he’d found himself caring for her as well. When she’d called him her “friend” he had practically glowed. Then Ciri had barrelled into their lives and their little circle had grown and gods, did he love that little girl.

“Where are _your_ parents, Jaskier?” She had once asked as he was soothing her back to sleep after a nightmare. It was always Cintra burning, Jaskier ached for her. She was too young for all of this.

“I don’t know, honey, I haven’t spoken to them for years.”

“Why not?”

“We were never really a family.”

Ciri paused before smiling widely.

“But you have a family now.”

Jaskier smiled back, brushing the hair out of her face and listening to the sounds of Yennefer sleeping soundly and Geralt mumbling something to Roach.

“I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on the tumbs @imweakmylove  
> please comment what you thought


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